venerdì 24 agosto 2012

FISTS AND SWINGS IN CIRCLES OF WINE.

The inner smell and decay of aborted grandeur flings though squares of glitter and gutter, smearing dense and black wine on the cheeks of earthquaked statues.

By chance and by design, immaterial commerce filters across crowd clouds and descends into the city intestines, searching for minuscule gems and sub-harmonic tremors, like muted delays shaking souls out of narration.